Bitter
by MaybeWolf
Summary: Jade's life before she came to Hollywood Arts. It's more questions than answers. One shot.


**I tried to write something that's just a story, no ships unless you squint really hard for Rade. It's just a little something that popped into my head when I wondered why Jade always seems so bitter if Tori is given anything without having to earn it. It also touches on a possible reason for Robbie being a little out there. It's more abstract or noir based than my other stories I suppose. **

**Have at it.**

* * *

><p>This is the centre of the universe.<p>

I sit on the hood of a deathtrap that passes for a car. It's more rust than paint and only held together by paint. Nobody here gives a fuck though. It's a common thread in a tapestry that doesn't equate to anything in the grand scheme of things. We're just the kids without anywhere to go.

I'd name everyone, but it's of no consequence. The location is what matters. We lurk outside of the 7-11 in the part of town where nobody bothers to check in on us. It's the party of town where a needle is as easy to come by as a hotdog cart.

"You selling?"

It's that fucking kid from the fancy school. He comes here every friday, 4pm on the dot. What did I tell you? This is the centre of the universe. Even the good kids come here when they need a way out.

"What else would I be doing here?"

I sneer. Looking down at him through my nose. There's no reason to hide my contempt for him. He's one of the lucky ones. He's always got the newest phone, the best clothes, the newest toys. My last toy was a Barbie found in somebody's trash.

"Uh..."

He doesn't answer bar that pathetic whine, now he's dipping into what I assume is his parents bottomless wallet. I hate how casually he takes out a $20 note. I'm sickened by his cheerful smile as he passes it to me. Casually, I toss a small plastic bag full of happiness, escape and false promises to him.

"Thanks."

He mutters. I watch him place the puppet that shares his stupid curly hair and his label brand clothes on the pavement. The universe see's fit to give one person enough money to clothe a fucking puppet, but I'm living on the streets. It's times like these that I wonder why genocide is so frowned upon.

"Here."

The boy mutters, reaching into his backpack and thrusting a bag toward me. My eyes narrow and I leap down from the car with a grace honed from one too many times that dealing didn't cover eating. Nothing comes for free, I know that better than anyone. His eyes are bright with something you might call hope. I don't know, it's foreign to me and I don't like it.

"What is it?"

I'm distrustful for a reason. Last time I accepted a gift, I ended up waking up in an ally three hours later. The only silver lining to that tale was the one at the top of the dumpster I called a bed that night. He shifts like an ant under a magnifying glass as I continue to glare at him.

"A thank you."

He states. I barely hear him over the sound of his own self righteousness. Sure kid, the girl selling you drugs needs help. Keep telling yourself you're not just as damaged as me. The only difference between me and you is a fresh coat of paint. Your jeans and freshly ironed, mine have more holes than you've had caviar. Whatever.

"Fuck off."

I reply, climbing back onto my throne. It's not much, but it's more than any of the other kids around here have. It's shelter and it hauls ass when I need it to. Don't even mention that I don't have a license. I've haven't ever killed anybody by driving drunk so does it really matter?

"Please take it?"

He asks again, moving closer to where I sit and looking up at me. He looks like a lost puppy. I hate lost animals. They eat half of your meal and then fuck off once you've got nothing left to give. Snarling, I lash out with my foot and kick the bag out of his hanf.

"I said fuck off. Don't come back until you're buying."

He finally takes the hint and I watch him disappear into the sunset. If I cared about some rich boys aching heart, I'd yell out to him or something. Unfortunately for him, I just reach into my pocket and take out an old portable CD player. I only have the CDs that get left in peoples cars, sometimes they're good, sometimes they're not. At least the loud ones drown out my thoughts while I wait for another customer.


End file.
